attention. She
was watching her husband in a manner unbecoming a hostess. A middle-aged
youth toying politely with the blue sash of a girl in a white dress--he
had recently concluded a tense examination of the two antique rings on
her fingers--saw an occasion for laughter and embraced it. The girl
glanced somewhat timidly toward Anna and addressed her softly, as if
desiring to engage in some conversation beyond the superficial
excitement of the moment.

"I'm just mad about blue sashes," she whispered. "I think the sash is
coming back, don't you?"

Anna nodded her head. Erik had resumed his talk, his eyes still on her.

"Women are two things--theory and fact," he was saying. "The theory of
them demands war. If we get into this squabble you'll find them
cheering the loudest and waving the most flags. War is something that
kills men; therefore, it is piquantly desirable to their subconscious
hate of our sex." He smiled openly at Anna. "It's also something that
plays up the valor and superiority of man and therefore offers a
vindication for her submission to him."

"Oh," the lavender stocking was indignantly in evidence, "how awful!"

Dorn waited until the young woman had shifted her hips into a more
protesting outline.

"I agree," the red face chimed in. "It's nonsense. Dorn's full of clever
nonsense. I quite agree with you, Miss Dillingham." Miss Dillingham was
the lavender stocking. The wife of the red face fidgeted, politely
ominous. She announced pertly:

"I agree with what Mr. Dorn says." Which announcement her husband
properly translated into a warning and a threat of future conversation
on the theme, "You never pay any attention to me when there's anybody
else around."

Dorn continued, "And it gives them a sense of generalities. Women live
crowded between the narrow horizons of sex. They don't share in life.
It's very sad, isn't it, Miss Williams?" Miss Williams removed her sash
gently from the hands of the elderly youth and pouted. She was always
indignant when men addressed her seriously. It gave her an
uncomfortable feeling that they were making fun of her.

"Oh, I don't know," she answered. The elderly youth nodded his head
enthusiastically and whispered close to her ear, "Exactly."

"The things that are an entirety to women," pursued Dorn, "milk bottles,
butcher bills, babies, cleaning days, hello and good-bye kisses, are
merely gestures to their husbands. So in a war they find themselves able
to s